AN: Remember the author's note for the last chapter, in which I said that I wasn't able to log into the site on Saturday? In another example of glitchy weirdness, while I'm still getting email alerts of new reviews, they aren't actually showing up on the story review page and I can't respond to them, even through email, because as far as the site is concerned, they somehow don't exist. Bizarre. Anyway, if you've reviewed and haven't gotten a reply, that's the reason. If it doesn't sort itself out soon, I'll reply by PM.

In other news, you may have noticed that the link to the costume pictures is no longer functioning. The reason for that is that the site I had the photos on was hacked, and the thread lost. I've still got the photos on my hard drive, but as I've started making the Joker doll that goes with the costume, I've decided to wait until I've got that finished to get it all set up again.

Thanks for the reviews!

Then again, should a person be considered a friend after he's tried to kill you?

Jonathan ran a finger around the rim of the glass, considering. He didn't exactly have a great number of friends, and those that he did have—an entity inside of him with no physical presence and a handful of various criminal lunatics—could hardly be considered a basis of comparison for what constituted a normal relationship and what did not. Of course, nothing about his life could be described as normal, so he supposed that, for him, Scarecrow and the Arkham inmates were the closest to ordinary that he had.

Besides, someone like Edward Nigma, even with the severe obsessive and mildly narcissistic qualities, was, as far as Jonathan was concerned, much more stability than someone such as Joan Leland—who'd always insisted that they were friends, despite his disdain at speaking to or even being in the same room as her—who actually believed that she could make a difference in her patients' lives. In a place like Arkham, such blind optimism could only be held by someone as mad as the prisoners.

But the varying levels of madness in his friends and the highly subjective definition of normal were irrelevant. Insanity aside, none of them had ever tried to kill him. Isley had slapped him on more than one occasion, and Scarecrow had abandoned him, but his friends had never held a knife to his throat or threatened him with a flame thrower. Not to mention the crowbar to the ribs incident.

That wasn't to say that a relationship with violent beginnings couldn't come to friendly terms. It often did, and had developed that way since the beginning of human interactions. The first epic ever recorded contained such an example with Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the latter of whom only existed in the first place for the former to fight. Just because his life had no prior examples didn't mean that he didn't have such a relationship with the Joker. But the Joker had tried to kill him. And death tended to be rather permanent. Oblivion might be better than much of his life, but the destruction of potential success and happiness had to count greatly against the Joker.

He stopped tracing along the glass, taking a moment to close his eyes and consider. The Joker considered them to be friends. That had been his entire point with the house and Nightmare. That and control. By all logic, he shouldn't feel the same way.

Yet he didn't completely hate him.

He had no idea why. Leftover desire or stupidity or what, he couldn't help it. It was like having a family member with an addiction; repeated trials had showed he wouldn't change, and spending too much time with him was asking to be exploited, but Jonathan couldn't keep himself from caring. It had to be the stupidest emotional need he'd ever experienced.

Well, except for the Batman thing.

Jonathan opened his eyes again and found that the seat opposite him was empty. The realization was accompanied by that same stomach-churning, throat-drying anxiety as always. Slightly lessened after Scarecrow's return, but only slightly. When did he leave? Damn his deep thoughts and their ability to block out the rest of existence.

He resisted the urge to get up and seek the man—who'd almost certainly left the manor by this point—out, both out of self-disgust and the knowledge that Scarecrow would not take it well at all. What is wrong with me? Batman had done every bit as much damage to him as the Joker. He hadn't tried to kill him, true, but he had made him mad, which was arguably worse. At least in death, he wouldn't have to deal with hallucinations and paranoia.

And yet he couldn't hate Batman either, despite having every reason and then some to do just that. It shouldn't be that striking of a realization, considering he'd flat out said it the night before, yet Jonathan still couldn't wrap his head around that troubling fact.

He ought to hate him. He wanted to hate him. It would make life so much easier. He couldn't even classify what was going on between them, now that he knew he didn't hate the Bat and the Bat had said the same to him. It wasn't friendship. It couldn't be.

But it wasn't merely tolerance either, thanks to this idiotic need.

His thoughts were cut short when Scarecrow stood up. Where are we going? For a moment he wondered if Scarecrow had been feeling that same cursed longing, and was seeking out Batman on the off chance he hadn't left. After all, they often shared emotions. Then he realized how stupid the idea was and shook his head, banishing the thought.

The Bat's bedroom.

What? Perhaps he hadn't been as off as he thought.

To find the antipsychotics. Scarecrow quickened his pace, having faltered in Jonathan's confusion. Hurry up. Do you want his butler to catch us?

Why do you want the antipsychotics? Knowing Scarecrow, it would be part of an escape attempt—Jonathan was surprised, now that he thought about it, that he hadn't tried or come up with one in the first day back—but how would the meds figure into it? The madness thing clearly hadn't worked the first time, and Scarecrow wasn't about to try it, opposed to it as he'd been in the first place.

Because I don't want to be dependent on him. Not for anything more than I have to be.

He'll just take them back.

He can try. Spoken as if he'd forgotten that the Batman was much taller, more powerful, faster, and better trained in combat than they could ever be. I'd almost rather overdose than give them back.

Jonathan shuddered, eternally. Please don't tell me you're seriously considering that.

Well, now that you mention it—

It would kill me. He said it flatly, not needing to emphasize the words for Scarecrow to understand that he was perfectly serious. It's dangerous enough to do with a healthy person, but for someone with system damage from starvation who's just been through withdrawal and is still under massive stress, it would be absolutely deadly.

Even if he found you immediately after you did it? He sounded hesitant now, thankfully.

If you want to play Russian Roulette with a fully loaded gun, play it with someone whose body you don't share. Besides, he'd arrange some way to have me treated here as opposed to a hospital. He'd be able to pay a doctor to stay silent. And there's no guarantee that he'd prevent me from dying, anyway. He swallowed hard, ignoring the part of him that trusted Batman not to do that. It wouldn't be killing me, technically.

There's making your point and there's over-making it. Scarecrow was almost smiling. That would verge from morally gray to morally…very, very dark gray, like black with one drop of white to it. If it doesn't break his rule, it's at least going to crack it.

You'd be surprised what people can overlook when they want to. Remember that stabbing in Kansas? The news story where all five witness just stepped over the victim?

Key word there being "five." Definite amusement now. People are more likely to help when they think they're the only ones to be held accountable. Or have you forgotten that bystander experiment your professor lectured on?

I could argue that those results only apply when the person knows he's being watched and could be held solely accountable f—

All right, you've made your point. Several times over. I'm not asking you to overdose. Anyway, we're here.

Jonathan blinked. They were, in fact, standing in front of the door to the master bedroom. How long they'd been there was anyone's guess. He really needed to do something about this zoning out problem. Still bewildered at just what his other half hoped to accomplish, he let Scarecrow be the one to open the door.

Scarecrow did not, as the door was locked.

"Since when does he lock his door?" He was surprised enough to speak aloud. It had never been locked before, when he'd been following Batman from room to room and lying on his bed reading Edgar Allen Poe while the man was out.

Maybe this was the Bat's way of telling him that all the stalking wasn't appreciated.

"He doesn't lock it," said a voice from behind him, one that was unmistakably stern and British. "I did."

Jonathan turned around to find the butler standing in the hallway, Scarecrow speaking before he could come up with some suitably subtle yet rude remark. "Do you just obsessively follow me?"

"When there's nothing else to do? Yes."

Do people in the United Kingdom all have impeccable snark, or is that just him? "I'd think you'd always be busy, considering your employer. That has to mean a great deal of strain on you, hasn't it?" If he could even feel strain. Jonathan had seen him three times that he could recall, and each of the three had him appearing out of nowhere at the least opportune moment. One had been in the middle of the night as well, making Jonathan question if he actually slept, or constantly wandered, making lives miserable all the while.

The butler stared at him for a fraction of a second too long, long enough to make Jonathan even more uncomfortable. "All it means is that I cover the things he forgets. Such as restricting a madman's access to his personal effects."

"And yet it took you until now to think of locking the door. I'm beginning to see where he gets his perpetual cluelessness."

Mocking the butler, as Jonathan realized the second after he'd done it, was not a good idea. The look in the man's eyes could bring lesser criminal masterminds to tears. And the most frightening thing was that he didn't appear to be more than mildly angry. Not yet. "Dr. Crane, I believe you'll come to find that Master Wayne and I have a rather different style of going about things. You recall all the threats he made regarding the things he could do to keep you silent, I'm sure?"

He nodded, keeping his mouth tightly closed in case Scarecrow decided to smart off and have them both eviscerated.

"Well, the difference between Master Wayne and myself is that I'd actually do them." He didn't add "Do I make myself clear?", but the look his face said it well enough to make the words unnecessary.

"You're the one who raised him?" Scarecrow asked, overriding Jonathan's attempts to bite their tongue and remain silent. He could feel his other half's anger, as well as his own overwhelming fear that this would end with himself hanged, drawn, and quartered or worse.

"I am." He looked as if he was daring his master's captive to continue. That, and scrutinizing in a way that Jonathan didn't like at all.

"I can see why he turned out so well."

The butler gave him a look that would have made lesser criminal masterminds faint, right as Jonathan's mind figured out the reason for the prying gaze. He can tell the difference.

Scarecrow looked different from Jonathan. Not in a way that a casual observer—or Arkham psychiatrist—would pick up on, but there were differences if one really watched. Jonathan's stances and movements tended to be rigid, whereas Scarecrow's were more relaxed. Jonathan's voice was, in many cases, just barely higher, as he was the one who experienced the more high-strung emotions on a fairly regular basis. Scarecrow was blunt, and Jonathan was eloquent. And a thousand other little differences like that. Most people overlooked them.

Obviously, the butler was not most people.

He couldn't know the extent of the split, of course, but he noticed something, and even that was too much of a risk. Jonathan fled back down the stairs before Scarecrow could say anything else, grateful that the butler didn't trip him on the way down, and retreated to one of the sitting rooms, heart still pounding. He sat there for hours, awaiting Batman's return. Just why he was awaiting it, he wasn't sure, but until he had time to fully relax, it was the only thought that kept him from absolute panic.

AN: Gilgamesh and Enkidu are characters in the narrative poem The Epic of Gilgamesh.

In Wichita, Kansas, 2007, a woman named LaShanda Calloway was fatally stabbed in a convenience store. While she was bleeding to death, five other shoppers stepped over her without assisting, calling 911, or alerting the staff. One did stop, however, to take a picture of ther with a camera phone.

The bystander experiment tests whether or not a person will take action to help someone, first when the subject is alone, and then with others. The experiment found that when people are in a group, they're less likely to help as they assume others will take care of it. That and other depressing experiments (the worst of all being the Milgram) can be read about here: www. cracked. com/ article_16239_5-psychological-experiments-that-prove-humanity-doomed. html